Tragic (16 page)

Karp tried to turn down the drink. “I better not,” he said. “I’m going to need to be on my toes later.”

Ivgeny looked like he’d just been told that breathing air was bad for him. “What? Vodka helps clear the mind of everything but the task at hand,” he said. “And is just one little toast with your wayward cousin.”

Karp held out his hand for the glass. “I knew that wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try.”

“Yes, I am a bad influence.
Prost!
” Ivgeny shouted. “And happy Chanukah!”

Trying not to cough as the fiery liquid ate its way from his mouth to his stomach, Karp had to clear his throat several times before being able to croak out, “Cheers and happy Chanukah to you, too!”

Ivgeny tilted his head and grinned. “Sorry. Is homemade. Old family recipe from Poland. Special top-secret ingredients to give it a little extra kick.”

“It does have that,” Karp agreed. “But I believe the last of the chill has left my toes.”

“Good, good,” Ivgeny said. Then his face grew more serious as he took the glass back. Indicating two chairs near a coffee table, he added, “I know you have work to do, so I should not keep you
longer than necessary. Let us sit and I will tell you some things you should know.”

Thirty minutes later, as Karp pulled on the hat and coat to leave, he smiled and patted his head. “Thanks for everything, including the loaners,” he said. “I could probably curl up under one of those trees out there and be perfectly warm. I’ll give them back to your man when I get to the car.”

“There is no need,” Ivgeny replied. “Anton will escort you back, but the clothes are your Chanukah gift.”

“That’s not necessary,” Karp said but was cut off by Ivgeny.

“Please, I understand where some of the reluctance may come from,” his cousin said. “Knowing you, I make sure the money that paid for these came from one of my legitimate businesses, and the garments themselves were purchased from a struggling merchant who was thrilled to have the sale. Please, a gift of warmth from your cousin.”

“You make it tough,” Karp replied. “But all right, I’ll wear them when it’s cold and be thankful that my cousin thought of me while supporting a local businessman.”

Ivgeny and his men had walked with Karp as far as the dock when his cousin stopped and pointed to the dark boat. “This is my ride,” he said. “Again, my apologies to have brought you out on such a night. This is like James Bond movie, no? But I could not risk being seen with you, or calling you with the details. Too many peoples are trying to listen to me—your government, my government, my enemies. I am careful, but I can never be sure. I would have preferred to have you and your lovely bride as guests in my home, but I understand the . . . impracticality . . . of such a thing.”

Karp shook his hand warmly. “It was worth every shiver,” he said. “And yes, someday would be great. I hope it won’t be long.”

“I hope so, too,” Ivgeny said. “Okay, see you later, crocodile.”

“It’s see you later, alligator,” Karp said with a wink.

The Russian gave him a puzzled look. “They are both large reptiles with big teeth.”

“Yes, but it rhymes. ‘See you later, alligator’ rhymes. Then my reply would be, ‘In a while, crocodile.’ ”

“I see, okay, ‘Pretty soon, you old monkey.’ Is better, yes?”

Karp considered suggesting “baboon” but it wasn’t getting any warmer outside. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “That’s just fine.”

Ivgeny grinned and patted him back. “You crazy Americans and your sayings. It’s amazing you get anything done.”

“Remember me to your father; perhaps we’ll celebrate the holiday together.”

S
OME OF THOSE CRAZY
A
MERICANS
were waiting for him in his office fifteen minutes later as he walked in from the anteroom after getting off the private elevator. He was brushing the snow off his new coat when Guma, who was slouched in his usual chair sucking on an omnipresent cigar, laughed. “Doctor Zhivago, I presume.”

“Very funny, Goom,” Karp replied, sweeping the hat from his head.

“I think more like
From Russia with Love
,” Marlene said as she walked up and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I think you look great, and I want to hear all about it later.”

“Now that’s more like it.”

“What? Now I have to start kissing you to get a kind word?” Guma said, looking over at Fulton, who was quietly enjoying the repartee. “Clay, would you stand in for me?”

“No way,” Fulton responded. “I’ve heard some of the language that comes out of that mouth and no way am I kissing Butch.”

“All right, all right,” Karp said, laughing with the others as he took off his coat and hung it on a rack behind his desk. “Enough of the frivolity, the hour is late, and I’m calling this meeting to order. Where’s Mrs. Carlotta?”

“She’s in an interview room with one of Clay’s female detectives,” Marlene said.

“We figured you might want to talk first outside of her presence,” Guma explained.

“Yes, good call,” Karp replied as he sat. He picked up his pencil and jotted down a couple of notes before looking up at the other three, who were sitting down around the room. “Okay, here’s what I got. Just don’t ask me where I got it.”

It took him five minutes to recount the highlights of what he’d learned from Ivgeny about the gangster’s “discussion” with Miller, DiMarzo, and Bebnev. “Your thoughts?”

“Yeah, were they missing any fingers or toes?” Marlene asked.

“What?”

“Never mind, it’s an inside joke I’ll tell you about later,” she said. “So essentially it looks like we’re right about Vitteli’s involvement, unless there’s another ‘Charlie’ who wanted it done as soon as possible.”

“And who coincidentally has a pal named Joey acting as the middleman,” Fulton added.

“So will this mystery informant be testifying to any of this?” Guma asked.

“Not a chance,” Karp replied. He recalled Ivgeny’s description of the three conspirators groveling and crying as they competed to tell their side of the story. “Wouldn’t matter; the information was gained on the battlefield of good versus evil in the alleged ‘fog’ of saving two lives and is for background only.”

“Ah, or in my people’s parlance, somebody beat the living snot out of these three goombahs until they talked,” Guma said. “I’m surprised they’re not also sleeping with the fishes.”

“I think that was part of the original plan,” Karp said. “But, as Clay noted earlier, a ‘concerned citizen’ put a stop to it. Fortunately, no one beat the snot out of anyone, so at least we don’t have to deal with that when they get lawyers. I’ve no doubt, however, that having the snot beat out of them was the least of their
worries, so they talked, though the person asking the questions was coming at it blind, so he may not have heard everything there was to hear, or been told the truth.”

Guma stared down at his cigar for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling. “If I got this right, even if this witness and these statements were allowed at trial, we wouldn’t have enough to convict Vitteli and his cohorts,” he noted. “Miller doesn’t know much of anything, except what DiMarzo told him, and DiMarzo only knows what he heard from Bebnev. He didn’t meet with anybody himself, except this Lvov character briefly, and Lvov is dead. Otherwise, all DiMarzo knows is that Bebnev told him that he met with Lvov, some guys named Joey and Jackie, and that Bebnev says he also overheard part of a conversation in which the name Charlie was mentioned.”

“Yeah,” Fulton agreed. “And according to your informant even the shooter, Bebnev, doesn’t know much more than what he told DiMarzo. He claims to have met with Lvov and this guy Joey—Joey Barros, we assume—and Jackie, probably Jackie Corcione, both of whom were present when Carlotta got shot, and that they hired him to kill Carlotta. Lvov was the moneyman, but as far as we know, Bebnev had no further contact with Barros, Vitteli, or Corcione.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Karp agreed. “But at least now we know we haven’t been barking up the wrong tree. There
were
other possibilities—a mob hit from some gang trying to take over the docks, or revenge, or even a robbery that went bad. Now I think we can rest assured that Vitteli and his boys are factually guilty of Vince Carlotta’s murder, and that’s step one. Now we work on getting the admissible evidence to prove it beyond any and all doubt.”

“To do that it’s going to take a lot more pieces to put this puzzle together,” Guma replied.

“But we have an idea of what the picture’s going to look like,” Fulton added. “So where do you want to start now, boss?”

As his two old friends spoke, Karp rose from his chair and turned around to look out the window at the snow-covered streets below. With the flakes of snow flitting like moths into the lights from the streetlamps, he thought the city was at its most beautiful after a late-night storm before traffic and the multitudes hit the street. But it wasn’t the beauty of the streets that made him furrow his brow at the conundrum Fulton’s question posed.
Where do we start from here?

Then, far below and across the park just east of the Criminal Courts Building, he saw three apparently homeless people wrapped in rags, tramping through the fresh-fallen snow as they struggled up the sidewalk against the wind.
I guess it’s not quite as beautiful when you’re out in it without a home to go to or even a warm place to rest for a few hours.

“We start at the bottom and work our way up,” he announced as he turned around and looked at each of the men in their eyes. “We nail these three punks and see who they’ll roll over on and what else they might know. We keep plugging in pieces until we have enough to convict the bastards who put them up to it. Ultimately, the three killers go first, then on to the conduits and intermediaries who will lead us to the kingpin.”

He looked at Fulton, who was holding a large plastic container on his lap. “I take it that’s from New Rochelle.”

Fulton stood up and carried it over to a table Karp had set up next to his desk. He opened the flaps of the container and announced, “Merry Christmas!”

“I’m Jewish, but you’re the second person tonight who’s wished me a season’s greeting in connection with the detritus of a murder case.”

“Yeah? Well, I have no idea what you just said, but you’re going to believe in Santa Claus after Marlene and I describe what’s in here,” Fulton replied.

Twenty more minutes passed, during which time Marlene and then Fulton described what happened in New Rochelle as well as
the contents of the box, beginning with the license plate number of the car. “Which, of course, was registered to William Miller of Brooklyn,” Fulton said.

“The same car in which Miller, DiMarzo, and Bebnev were ‘found’ today,” Marlene added.

When Marlene and Fulton were finished describing the contents of the container, Karp put down the pencil he’d been using to take notes and sat back in his chair. “Nice work, you two,” he said.

“Want me to get this stuff off to the lab?” Fulton asked, closing the container.

Karp thought about it, then shook his head. “At the last bureau chiefs’ meeting someone said that the labs are backed up. I’d like a fast turnaround, but without raising a lot of questions, given the sensitivity of the case. In fact,” he said, turning to his wife, “would you mind calling Jack Swanburg and the Baker Street Irregulars and see if they can do a rush job?”

“Would love to,” Marlene replied. “I haven’t talked to that sweet old man in far too long.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only half past nine in Colorado; I’ll give him a call while you’re doing the lineups. Anything else?”

“Well, I hate to ask,” Karp said, looking at Marlene, “but I’d like to get Nicoli Lopez over here. I have an idea on how to work this.”

Now?
Marlene thought, glancing out the window at the night and the still-falling snow.

“It may be my only shot at this,” Karp explained.

Marlene studied her husband’s face and then nodded. “I’ll call Bobbi Sue Hirschbein; she’s a live-in director and sleeps at the shelter. I’ll let her know I’m on my way. Besides, I promised Nicoli I’d let her know when we brought Gnat in; I think she’ll want to come anyway.”

“Many thanks, my dear; Clay will have a driver for you. And now, if you’d introduce us to Antonia, you can be on your way,” her husband replied.

Marlene led the way into the big meeting room off of the district attorney’s personal offices, which, among other things, was used every Monday morning for a bureau chiefs’ meeting where major cases would be presented by anxious assistant district attorneys for vetting by the senior staff.

Antonia Carlotta was slumped at one end of the long table. Her face pale and drawn, she sat up as they entered the room. Marlene made the introductions. “Antonia Carlotta, this is District Attorney Roger Karp, Special Assistant District Attorney Ray Guma, and Detective Clay Fulton you already know.”

Karp stepped forward to offer his hand. “My condolences on behalf of all of us,” he said. “I met your husband a few times and always came away impressed.”

Antonia dipped her head slightly but didn’t smile. “He had that effect on many people,” she said. “Me most of all.”

“I’m also sorry to have kept you waiting,” Karp said. “A lot has been happening this evening, as I’m sure you’re aware, and it’s important that we do things the right way and in the right order.”

“Of course.” Antonia nodded and hesitated a moment before asking, “I understand you caught the men who did this?”

“I’m sure you understand that I can’t discuss the details of the case,” Karp replied, looking earnestly into her eyes. “But I will say that we’re making progress. As part of that, I’d like you to view what we call a lineup in a few minutes. It may or may not include men you recognize.”

“Will they be able to see me?” Antonia said. She suddenly looked frightened.

“No,” Karp replied. “They won’t even know you’re in the building. You’ll be in a different room and looking at them through a one-way mirror. Will you do this? Good.”

As they all filed out into the hallway, Marlene turned to Antonia. “I have to go,” she said. “But I’m leaving you in good hands. Call me anytime, about anything.”